


Quite Bad Characters

by QBW



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 03: The Unsleeping City, Campaign 05: A Crown of Candy, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25952269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QBW/pseuds/QBW
Summary: A collection of D20 OCs and their stories.
Kudos: 3





	1. TUC:- THE CONFUSED TOURIST DAD

* * *

**STEVEN DAVIES**

UNIVERSE: THE UNSLEEPING CITY

LVL 3 BATTLEMASTER FIGHTER

STR: 17

DEX: 17

CON: 17

INT: 12

WIS: 15

CHA: 16

* * *

‘Look, Barb, I don’t see why you’re blaming me? You know how long it took to save up for this holiday and- no, no! I’m not shoutin’, I’m just tryin’ to- yeah. Yeah,’ Steven chewed on his tongue, phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear as he wrestled with his camera, ‘Nah. No. No, what, and that’s my fault? Yeah, I _know_ I booked the tickets, I- did _you_ want to spend two weeks at some goddamn Disney cartoon hellhole? It’s goddamn Christmas, Barb.’

Steven Davies was a heavy-set man of ruddy complexion and variable temperament. The sort of man who drank too much. The sort who maybe made some not so kosher comments about women before his daughters were born, but now would threaten to deck a man for saying something inappropriate. His wife saw it as growth. He hadn’t noticed. He was not a man for introspection or philosophy. His greatest desires in life were for a happy family, a good beer, and for his day to go well.

‘-that’s not on me! What, I’m supposed to give them a geography lesson whenever we go somewhere? You have to be-’

This day was _not_ going well. Hell, this _week_ was not going well. What was supposed to be the family’s first big holiday somewhere further abroad than Cornwall had been marred by turbulent flights, spousal fights, and a pair of twins mortified to learn that no, Disneyland was not within driving distance of New York. Anna and Nat had proceeded to throw a tantrum in the lobby of a very pricey _three-star_ hotel and now refused to leave the room.

He’d tried to get them all excited about the sights. See the landmarks, find a...cheap-ish show, maybe go out to Staten Island, if they had the time. Apparently there was some sort of convention, or parade, or something going on in advance of the holidays, too, but no such luck in convincing the family. In the end, he’d gone out on his own.

And he wasn’t lost. He knew how to work the maps app on his phone.

He wasn’t lost.

At that point, his phone had rung and he had answered it. That was thirty minutes ago.

‘I don’t know when I’m coming back, I- _yes_ , I know where I am! Do you not trust that I-’

He didn’t see them coming. Of course he didn’t. He was looking down at his camera, his focus split some sixty-forty between fiddling with the lens and vainly attempting to placate his wife over the phone (PERSUASION: 2+3=5) with little success. Arguably, some would say it was his fault, but not him. He was having a bad day. A day about to get just that little bit worse as some arsenugget in a Santa outfit knocked into him, sending his phone crashing to the ground.

‘Oi! Watch where you’re walking, pal!’ Steven yelled as the figure shuffled past. His eye twitched as he bent to pick up his phone - a wince as he looked at the sparkling, new cracks spidering up his screen and remembered all the times he’d told the twins they couldn’t have smartphones if they didn’t know how to take care of them.

Well, at least it wasn’t the camera.

‘Hey! Mate! You ain’t even going to apologise?’

The Santa in question didn’t respond. It didn’t seem like they’d even heard him. Were they ignoring him? Break his phone and then shamble off like nothing happened? Here he was, stuck in the middle of who knew where - he did, he wasn’t lost - with a broken phone, a pissed off family back at the hotel, and now some complete tosspot pretending like he didn’t exist.

No. Not today.

‘I’m talking to you, Santa Claus!’ he shouted, walking after his assailant. Was the guy high? He watched the figure lurch slightly, grumble, then stumble into an alleyway. ‘Oi!’ Steven yelled, shoving his broken phone into his pocket and jogging after him.

As he turned off the street, Steven Davies was faced with a choice. To continue down a dark, somewhat off-smelling alley after a man dressed as a Coca Cola mascot, or to go back. Go back to the road, go back to the hotel, go back to his wife and his daughters. A smart man, a cautious man, a man with a modicum of curiosity might have pictured all the things that could await him down that dim and dreary alleyway, and decide it not worth the risk.

Steven Davies was not such a man. His primary school form tutor had once described him as _disturbingly bereft of imagination_. Usually, that kept him out of trouble. Usually.

He’d come some way off the beaten track to get here - and again, he knew precisely where here was...it was _here_ \- and it was relatively quiet for the city. The only noises he could discern were sirens and traffic in the distance, the drip of a cracked gutter to his left, and a _splutch clutch splush_ up ahead, just past that dumpster. That dumpster with the scrap of fuzzy, red coat with dirt-stained, white trim peeking out from the other side.

Steven scratched his chin (INSIGHT: 7+2=9) and moved forward.

‘Look, if you don’t want to pay for my phone, I get it, but I’m on holiday, and my wife’s going to throw a fit if-’ Steven stopped.

Behind the dumpster, two hideously disfigured Santa Clauses were crouched over a third, toothlessly chewing at his exposed belly. The smell of rot and mint was ripe and thick in the winter air, overpowering the burst trash bags piling up against the wall. As Steven approached, they snapped their necks to look at him. One eye dangled from the first’s face, as the second’s jaw swung slack and free. The one on the ground burbled, but did not move, his swollen stomach covered in red marks where his fellow Santas had failed to gum their way through skin that looked like it was melting.

 _Bloody hell_ , Steven thought, _they must be on bath salts._

No sooner had the thought formed, the two feral creatures launched themselves towards him (S1 INITIATIVE: 13; S2 INITIATIVE: 12; STEVEN INITIATIVE: 4+3=7). The first slammed into his side (TO HIT: 13+3=16 vs AC 16 / DAMAGE: 6+1=7), as the second sailed past into the wall (TO HIT: 3+3=6 vs AC 16).

‘Oi! The hell do you think you’re playin’ at?’ Steven shouted, shielding his camera with one hand. He swung at the first with ol’ lefty, (TO HIT: 2+5=7 vs AC 8) but missed wildly, then tossed his camera onto the softest looking trashbag he could see as the two Santas came for a second lunge (TO HIT: 5+3=8 / 11+3=14 vs AC 16). They knocked into each other and Steven took the opportunity to grab the first and hit them with both fists (BRACE: 13+5=8 vs AC 8 / DAMAGE: 1+3+3=7), then another pair of punches for good measure, before pulling the man into a bear hug (TO HIT: 9+5=14 vs AC 8 / RESTRAINING STRIKE: 18+3=21 vs 15+1=16 / DAMAGE: 3+3+3=9).

Feeling the fury that had built up since they’d arrived on Saturday, the fury at the legroom on the flight here, the fury at the guy at the hotel desk giving him a dirty look as the girls screamed their heads off, and the fury at the fact that he had to keep all of that fury restrained, Steven let out a primal roar into Santa’s dripping face, and clocked him with ol’ lefty.

(ACTION SURGE / TO HIT: 6+5=11 vs AC 8 / DAMAGE: 2+3+1=6) With a sickening crunch, Steven’s fist went a little too deep into the addled Santa’s face for comfort. A gob of minty blood splattered onto him, as his assailant painlessly gnawed on his knuckles for a second, before he dropped them backwards onto the third with a grunt.

Santa number two, seeing this, seemed incensed. It made a sound halfway between a stern ‘You’ve been a bad boy!’ and the wail of a melting dog. It lumbered at him (TO HIT: 8+3 vs AC 16), but Steven sidestepped, and shoved into it (SHOVING ATTACK: 20+5 vs AC 8 / DAMAGE: 8+4+3+7+7=29 / ENEMY STRENGTH SAVE: 9+1=10 vs 13) so hard that the creature flew off its feet, and landed atop the others, belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly. Then throbbing. Then squirming. Its skin grew taut, as though its insides weren’t quite set in place, like they were trying to push themselves out. A sound, not human nor animal, reverberated out from beneath the creature’s fur-lined coat.

‘That’ll teach you!’ Steven shouted, then after a pause, ‘And get off the drugs!’ He awkwardly stepped over the writhing pile of incapacitated, undulating Santas to grab his camera. He gave it a once-over, (LUCK: 17) saw it thankfully unharmed, then pulled the strap over his head.

Honestly, this day was going awfully. As he left the alleyway, he considered going back to the hotel. He looked left, then right, then reached into his pocket to look at the maps app on his phone.

His broken phone.

Shit.

He was lost.

* * *


	2. ACOC:- THE 'BARON' OF GLEN MALLOW

* * *

**WHITNEY COTTONTAIL**

****

UNIVERSE: A CROWN OF CANDY

LVL 3 OATH OF CONQUEST PALADIN

STR: 9

DEX: 17

CON: 14

INT: 13

WIS: 12

CHA: 18

* * *

‘What’s all this noise?’ Cottontail shouted from the security of his bed. No response.

‘What’s all this noise? What’s all this noise? The sun’s barely overhead. You mustn’t wake me until it’s at least begun to go down, you hear me? Benneth! Benneth! Attend to me!’

No response.

He grumbled, louder than he needed to, and made a great fuss of extricating himself from his sheets. Dressed in a silk robe that had seen far better days, the old mouse vainly patted his bedside table in search of his nightcap (PERCEPTION: 8+1=9). No dice. The former Baron of Glen Mallow had lost many things over the years. His title, his land, arguably his marbles, and now his nightcap. And he was in denial about them all.

Glen Mallow was a lovely, little ex-barony in the farthest reaches of the Great Stone Candy Mountains, out past Buzzybrook, and Manylicks, and the Fondant Valley. It lay down a long and winding road, well worn not through use, but mere age and a lack of maintenance. It had two primary tourist hotspots: the old well, for the history of the thing; and the new well, because it was the only new thing around, and even had a little roof made of sugarwood. Glen Mallow’s main exports for the past year were: two loaves of bread Old Grimskittle had sold to a wandering hermit, and a shoe little Nevin lost in the river. It was a place so small, so inconsequential that sometimes people forgot to include it on maps.

In the mind of ‘Baron’ Whitney Cottontail, it was the whole world.

His family had lorded over this land for more than a century. His great grandmother, Baroness Pinkerton Cottontail, had been gifted it for services to the crown, and the family had been devoted retainers ever since. To this day, Whitney prided himself on his loyalty to proud King Jadain.

Eighteen years ago, the barony of Glen Mallow was incorporated into the lands of Duke Joren Jawbreaker, when a cartographer accidentally mis-drew a border, and King Amethar of House Rocks signed a document without being able to read. Fifteen years ago, a clerk in the service of the King noticed the change, and arranged for Glen Mallow to be notified. The letter was misplaced. Thirteen years ago, a messenger finally arrived at the doorstep of Cottontail House, and was summarily dismissed when he claimed to represent a king that Whitney didn’t recognise.

Four months ago, King Amethar was excommunicated.

One month ago, soldiers from the Concord invaded Candia.

Two hours ago, they arrived in Glen Mallow.

Whitney could hear noises from the square. Loud noises. Disruptive noises. He was not best pleased, and what’s more, his manservant Benneth was nowhere to be seen. He grabbed his cane, angrily shifted his _own_ feet into his slippers, opened his _own_ chamber door, and walked down to the street to see what all the fuss was about.

When he stepped outside, he was shocked to see soldiers, Vegetanian soldiers in colours he didn’t recognise, carrying banners he didn’t recognise, marching down towards him. A crowd of villagers followed behind, and there, alongside the leader of this band of strangers, was Benneth, swollen eye, talking non-stop as he ever did.

‘I swear to you, sir, it’s the truth! He’s not the Baron! This is Duke Jawbreaker’s land. _He’s_ the one you want!’ Benneth put his hand on the soldier’s arm, and was knocked to the ground for it.

The crowd of villagers began to shout louder. Angry voices. A man ran out and knelt next to Benneth. The young man’s husband. Whitney shook his head. Benneth should be working! Not fraternising! Honestly! The youth today.

The soldier at the front, their leader, Whitney supposed, raised his hand to strike, but noticed the elderly sugar mouse and stopped. He turned.

‘Are you the Baron?’ he asked.

‘I-’

‘No! Why won’t you listen? This hasn’t been a barony in years! He’s just-’

‘Silence,’ the soldier said, without raising his voice, and went to kick Benneth with an armoured boot.

‘Yes, yes, Benneth, be quiet. Really. I’ve been too lenient with you, young man. Show some respect,’ he waved his cane, ‘I was calling for you, and I can’t find my nightcap. What have you been doing?’

Benneth looked up at him, hands shaking, body shaking, ‘Sir! Run! They mean to kill you!’ Two soldiers grabbed the young man firmly by the shoulders, as the rest kept back the angry crowd behind.

The soldier’s leader, a broad-chested cauliflower, was handed a roll of parchment, unfurled it, and began to read, ‘By order of the Hierophant Rex of the Bulbian Church, the Pontifex Belizabeth Brassica, and the assembled peoples of the Concordant Empire, all servants of the Hungry One found in Candia are to be rooted out and executed in accordance with the will of the Bulb. As Baron of this, the Barony of Glen Mallow, you, Whitney Cottontail, are found to be an agent of the dark consumer, and shall be put to-’

‘Your documents are out of date! There was a letter! He’s not the Ba-’

The soldier kicked Benneth in the face, his chocolate-coated nose shifting with an uncomfortable crunch.

Whitney’s eyes went wide.

His manservant!

Benneth might be awfully familiar, and a little lax with the dusting, but still!

‘Excuse me!’ Whitney said, standing up a little straighter, his spine shifting with an uncomfortable crunch, ‘Take your hands, and your _foot_ , off of my steward!’

Behind the soldier, the assembled crowd of villagers were becoming more agitated, and beginning to push back. The cauliflower paid them no mind, heathenous mountain rabble as they were, ‘And what will you do, old man? I serve a higher power than you.’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, young fellow,’ Whitney said, drawing his sword from his cane, ‘I’ll show you what an old man in his fighting prime looks like!’

‘Baron’ Whitney Cottontail, a man of some seventy years, face cratered and lined where his hardened sugar skin was crumbling with age, struck a pose, and at that moment, the wind blew in just the wrong direction for the loose string securing his robe. As he stood, Humbug, the Boiled Blade, drawn and ready for combat, his robe fell open and his full, naked form was revealed to the assembled crowd of invading soldiers and loyal villagers alike.

(CONQUERING PRESENCE: SOLDIER WIS SAVE: 9+1=10 vs DC 14) The cauliflower soldier stared, aghast. He could not bring himself to step forward, so Whitney stepped instead (WHITNEY INITIATIVE: 10+3=13; SOLDIER INITIATIVE: 9). He lunged with his blade (TO HIT: 1+6=7 vs AC 18), but it glanced off the armour. The soldier, eyes fixed too low on the ‘Baron’s' body, swung (TO HIT W/ DA: ~~15+3=18~~ /6+3=9 vs AC 18) but missed wildly. He tried to tear his eyes away (SOLDIER WIS SAVE: 3+1=4 vs DC 14), but the old man’s bared credentials were just too much.

‘I don’t know what you’re trying, sonny, but I won’t have it! I’ve already lost my nightcap, I’m not going to lose a good, old-fashioned duel with a whelp!’ Whitney lunged again (TO HIT: 15+6=21 vs 18 AC / DAMAGE: 1+4+2=7), his sword glowing (DIVINE SMITE: DAMAGE: 7+3) as it lanced at the leaves that framed the cauliflower’s face. Behind them, Benneth’s husband had grabbed a rake and was swinging it at his two assailants, and further back, the crowd of villagers was pushing forward into the increasingly less confident-looking rank of soldiers.

‘I-I-’ the cauliflower spluttered, eyes still glued to Whitney’s sugar plums, ‘I speak with the authority of the Pontifex Belizabeth Brassica!’ He swung (TO HIT W/ DA: ~~16+3=19~~ /14+3=17 vs AC 18) and missed, trying to regain his focus (SOLDIER WIS SAVE: 17+1=18 vs DC 14) and finally succeeding, looking the mouse in the eye.

‘Look, I don’t know who that is, but she can come talk to me herself!’ Whitney snapped at the cauliflower, thrusting forward with his blade (WRATHFUL SMITE / TO HIT: 17+6=23 vs AC 18 / DAMAGE: 6+4+2+2=14), his own vegetables swinging aggressively in the breeze (SOLDIER WIS SAVE: 9+1=10 vs DC 14), sending a horrified shiver down the soldier’s spine.

The soldier was beaten. He was broken, both physically, and mentally. He knew he couldn’t win this alone. Turning to his comrades, he began to shout an order, only to see the men and women under his command fleeing, followed by a mob of frothing mountain folk wielding farm implements.

‘I am Whitney Cottontail, the Baron of Glen Mallow!’ Whitney stood, eyes closed regally, nose in the air, robe rippling in the wind, ‘Sworn Retainer of the good King Jadain, Duelist of the Order of the Pudding Cup, Inheritor of the Boiled Blade, and Descendant of the First Baroness of the Toasted Glades, I-’

A hand landed on his shoulder, ‘They’ve gone, sir.’

Whitney opened his eyes, as Benneth retied the drawstring on his robe.

‘Oh.’

‘And sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re wearing your nightcap.’

* * *


End file.
